


Shift

by amoosebouche



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angry Sex, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Cycling, Dean's Lance Armstrong jokes are finally relevant, F/M, Grieving Sam, Hate to Love, I just had a shitty couple of months, M/M, Next chapter in progress, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outdoor Sex, POV Dean Winchester, Smut, Sports, Supportive Dean, Work In Progress, don't let the grieving tag fool you, other characters will be added as story progresses, pure ridiculousness, stay tuned for sex, there absolutely will be fluff, this is not abandoned, this is pretty much just fluffy porny nonsense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-22 22:11:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7455769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amoosebouche/pseuds/amoosebouche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The only possible explanation for what’s happening right now is that Sam’s getting revenge for that toothbrush thing from last year. Well, and maybe that Dean is a masochist. In all honesty, it’s probably a combination of both.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Or, in which Sam somehow manages to get Dean into bicycling, and Dean manages to piss off the douchiest douchebro to ever sit in the saddle.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chammy Whammy!

**Author's Note:**

> welp. it should be obvious that my summer hobby is cycling. I have glorious tan lines, let me tell you.
> 
> I'm not following a plan at all & I have no idea if I can do this without a plan? sorry? or maybe not, who knows if this is even good!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to Dimps for betaing this, go Team Lube! <3 <3
> 
> chammy/chamois = the padding in bike shorts

The only possible explanation for what’s happening right now is that Sam’s getting revenge for that toothbrush thing from last year. Well, and maybe that Dean is a masochist. In all honesty, it’s probably a combination of both.

He looks warily at the thing Sam’s holding up in front of him.

“Dude. You know I don’t do shorts.”

“‘Dude’, yeah, you do. You have several pairs of workout shorts in your drawer. I’ve seen you wear them. This isn’t any different.”

“Fine, I’ll wear one of _them_ , then. Hard pass on those… things.”

“Your ass is going to regret it.”

Dean snorts, and his attention shifts to the other thing Sam is torturing him with today.

“And you’re sure that spindly little thing can hold me?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “You tested it out at the store. Why are you being so weird about this? It’s just a bike ride. It doesn’t even have to be a long one.”

Dean mutters under his breath.

“What?”

“I said, your idea of a long ride and my idea are probably very different.”

“I meant what I said. We’ll only try for ten miles today, see how you do. You really should wear these shorts, though. And the jersey. Both are specifically engineered to—” 

Dean cuts him off. “Blah, blah, blah. Fine, I’ll get on that death trap. But I’m wearing my own clothes.” He doesn’t wait for Sam to bring up the fact that the spandex crap _does_ belong to Dean, purchased expressly for the purpose of Dean going on bike rides with his brother, and quickly stalks back into his room to put on his perfectly normal and perfectly serviceable workout clothes.

  


Forty minutes, aching balls, and what feels like a bruised coccyx (or possibly his spine trying to slide out of his asshole) later, Dean secretly wishes he’d let Sam talk him into the stupid-looking cycling clothes. However, there’s a bigger issue at hand.

“Can you believe that dick, though? What crawled up _his_ ass and died?”

“SINGLE-FILE, DEAN. I know you know what that word means, and I know you heard me!” 

It’s easy to see why Sam’s annoyed. He _alleges_ that he told Dean the trail is single-file, and Dean _alleges_ that Sam wasn’t talking loud enough. Regardless, Dean riding (awkwardly) abreast of Sam caused a near-accident around a blind corner, when a Serious Cyclist zoomed around the corner at a very unsafe speed. The dude didn’t have to be such a fucking prick… although he _did_ verge off the trail and almost fall over, and _maybe_ it was kinda Dean’s fault, but still. That’s no reason to hurl insults and flip them off and chase after them to hurl _more_ insults for a quarter of a mile. There’s also the fact that they had to walk the last half mile back to the parking lot, because Dean couldn’t force himself to sit on that seat any fucking longer. He’s not sure if walking in cycling shoes was an entirely viable alternative, however.

All in all, it was a spectacular failure of a day. He kinda wishes he wasn’t so obstinate, because Sam has enough on his plate right now, and the whole reason Dean moved out here in the first place was to give Sam some extra support, not cause more problems. The first few months were fine, actually. He found an apartment with indoor parking near Sam’s place, and found a decent job plus a part-time bartending gig to help pay for the increased cost of living out here. It’s just… now that it’s summer, and Sam’s starting to feel like getting out and doing things again, he’s gotten out of hand with dragging Dean along. He somehow managed to get Dean to buy a bike, padded shorts and a jersey, special shoes, and all the other crap that Sam insisted was ‘necessary’. If you ask him, the only thing that should be necessary to ride a bike is the fucking bike. 

Though today clearly taught him otherwise.

And he really should apologize to Sam for being the dweeb who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing and causing problems.

But maybe after his ass has stopped hurting.

  


Three days later Sam tries to get him to go on another ride. Dean sits on his bike, and then with an embarrassingly loud yelp scrambles right back off of it. He suggests they do a sedentary activity instead.

  


A week from that first disastrous ride, Sam shows up at Dean’s apartment with a box. 

“It’s a new saddle,” Sam explains as Dean examines it dubiously. “It should be more comfortable than the stock saddle.”

“Okay…” He backs away from the door and waves Sam inside. Naturally, Sam ends up installing it because, while Dean may be handy, he’s not going to pretend he knows anything about bikes or putting on new seats. 

“Are you going to wear the proper equipment today?” Sam asks, and it may be Dean’s imagination, but he sounds super fucking smug.

Dean huffs, then pouts. 

But he pulls on the shorts (and adjusts himself. And adjusts himself _some more_ ) and he shimmies into the jersey (alright, well, it fits better than a loose t-shirt, and it’s got little pockets at the back, so it’s got that going for it), and he even puts on the gloves today, with a newfound appreciation for gel padding. 

(Instead of shoving all this shit at him without explanation, Sam could have at least _told_ him that there’d be so much vibration over some parts of the trail that his teeth would rattle right out of his head, but noo-oo-o, lets just let Dean suffer and figure everything out once it’s too late.)

Dean sighs, and looks himself over in the closet mirror. The shorts are tight as fuck, and they make his junk feel weird, what with the padding squishing his delicate parts every which way. Somehow,  his legs look really small. The jersey Sam picked out for him is, apparently, a basic one, but still has weird areas of color all over it, green and yellow and blue swathes seemingly placed haphazardly. The reflective patches glint as he twists and turns. The gloves aren’t that bad, he decides, and at least the shoes Sam chose look like regular shoes, with the clip thingies recessed in the sole, but he feels like a tool with the helmet and the sleek sunglasses, although he knows Sam won’t budge on the safety gear. 

He twists around, takes in the view from behind.

Yeah. He looks like a fucking idiot.

“I look like a fucking idiot,” he says when he gets back into the other room. 

“Give it time. Before you know it, you’ll feel like you’ve become one with your gear,” Sam says, a serene smile flitting across his face. Dean doesn’t miss the sad look that comes after the smile, and wonders if Jess used to complain about biking as much as he does.

“What are you, Dalai freaking Yoda? Let’s just get this over with.”

  


Not long into the ride, Dean’s balls are completely fucking numb. He has a sneaking suspicion that perhaps Sam is doing this to him as some sort of contraceptive measure. If so, Dean coulda told him not to bother. He hasn’t met (much less hooked up with) anyone since he got out here. Still too hung up on Lisa and Ben, most likely, although he wouldn’t say he wishes they were still together. The relationship had run its course. He supposes it’s probably that he was with them for almost two years, and just needs more time to decompress. And he loves Ben, he’s a great kid, Dean’s just not sure if kids of his own are in his future at all, of if he evens wants them to be. He would have loved to have been an uncle, though. If only—

He cuts the thought off abruptly. There’s no point in getting maudlin over things that he can’t change. 

“Why do you like this so much?” he calls out to Sam, as much to break himself out of his spiraling thoughts as out of genuine curiosity. “Seems like it just gives you a lot of time to think, and I thought you needed less of that.”

Sam chews on that for a little while, then drops back slightly so they’re close enough to talk.

“Well, yeah. I end up spending a lot of time in my head, but it’s different than when I’m at home or in the office, you know? Out here, there’s nature, and there’s sun, and you’re pushing yourself to your limits. Lots of endorphins. Lets me think about the good things, and, well, the less good things, but without getting caught up in a negative pattern.”

“Huh.” Dean says. “So, what, just keep on grindin’, til it doesn’t hurt any more?”

Sam’s smile is fleeting, barely a twitch of the lips. “I think it’ll always hurt, to be honest. But out here I hurt in other ways, too, and that makes everything balance out. At least for a little while.”

Before Dean can respond to that, a low voice barks loudly at them—“On your left!”—and it sounds like it’s coming from just over his shoulder. In surprise, he swerves and almost crashes into the guy speeding by right next to him. The dude has excellent reflexes, thank god, and manages to avoid Dean’s ineptitude.

“Jesus!” the guy says, slowing just enough to turn and look at Dean. “Learn how to—oh, it’s _you_ again.” Ugh, it’s _him_ again. And before Dean can formulate a thought, much less voice a comeback, the guy is speeding past and disappearing around the next bend.

Dean looks meaningfully at Sam.

“Alright, yes, he’s kind of abrasive, Dean, but you do keep threatening to crash into him. I’d say he kind of has a reason.”

“Traitor.”

  


Dean’s schedule gets rocky for a couple weeks. One of the guys at the bar quit unexpectedly, so he’s been picking up a few extra shifts on weekdays. It leaves less time for biking, and Dean’s surprised to realize that despite having only been on a handful of rides, he kinda misses it. Something Sam had said about it really resonated with him—being out there and pushing yourself not only kept your endorphins up, but he found he was often too exhausted to spend time thinking about sad crap afterward. 

On a Saturday—he and Sam usually meet up on Sundays or evenings throughout the week—Dean decides that he’s going to try going out on his own. The trail he and Sam use is about three miles from Sam’s apartment, but there’s another trail a few blocks down from Dean’s place. He hasn’t tried it before, and doesn’t know if it’s worth going on or not. He wonders, briefly, if he should text Sam to tell him his plans. You know, just in case something happens to him. He dismisses the thought as paranoid and insecure, and reminds himself (several times, firmly) that he’s not half bad at this, now.

Or so he thought. 

The trail is paved nice and smooth for the first mile, but quickly degenerates into gravel. His skinny little tires are no match for this surface, and he slips and slides his way for a few yards before he realizes this is futile, and possibly very stupid, and he should turn around before someone comes along and sees him. Of course, that’s when his bike slides right out beneath him when he hits a large gravel stone. 

Sam had drilled him on clipping in and out of his pedals, and it’s easy enough as long as you’re, you know, coming up on a stop sign and have plenty of time to prepare. Not so easy when you’re falling sideways and your feet are stuck to your bike and you’re freaking out because _your feet are stuck to the fucking bike_.

And then you’re lying on the ground under your bike. This is not only painful, but embarrassing. There’s not even anyone _around_ and he’s red as a tomato. He struggles to get his feet out, and shimmies out from under his bike. His left knee is fucking throbbing like crazy and—oh. Yeah, that’s gravel stuck in there. And that’s blood. Fan-fucking-tastic. A long red line in the shape of his bike frame extends along his leg, from mid-thigh to mid-shin. In a day, that’s going to be one gnarly bruise.

Very, very gingerly, he tests how well he can bend his knee. If he goes straight home now, he’ll probably get there before it gets too stiff. The worst part—his leg is mostly numb right now, so there isn’t much actual pain—is that once he gets past this gravel, he’s going to have to get back on the bike in order to get home.

He’s doing just that—or rather, trying to put enough weight on his bad leg to swing the other one up over the bike, and it’s not going so well—when a voice interrupts him.

“Oh my gosh! What happened?”

In all fairness, Dean was pretty focused on not falling over again, so being as startled as he is is no surprise. His head snaps up to a dark-haired woman on the trail. She stops and hops off her mountain bike ( _figures_ it’s for mountain bikes, why don’t they post shit like that at the start of the trail?) and drops it in the grass as she jogs over to him.

Dean laughs, though it sounds strained even to himself. He’d hoped to be able to get off the trail before anyone else came along. Sure, she seems concerned with his welfare, but there’s a real strong chance she’s also judging the living hell outta him, because that may or may not be what he’s doing to himself right now. He knows it’s irrational to be this concerned with how stupid he looks, but can’t seem to make himself care more about his injuries. 

“I, uh, I didn’t realize what kind of trail this was. I tried to turn around right when it hit the gravel, but then…” He shrugs, trailing off. It should be pretty obvious what happened after that. Thankfully, the woman’s more interested in brushing the crap out of his knee than his lame excuses.

“That’s going to be real nasty real soon,” she murmurs. “Hold on. I have a bare bones first aid kit with me.”

She’s back to his side in a flash, and cleans out some more gravel with gauze dampened from her water bottle. The bleeding may have actually stopped; it looks like superficial scrapes, luckily. Before he knows what’s happening, she’s offering to see him home, and oddly enough, he’s not refusing her escort. It may or may not have anything to do with her being of a rather forceful personality, or maybe it's just that she's more stubborn than him.  He quickly texts Sam to let him know about his mishap (if only because he wants to head off the mockery) and with some effort, is able to get back on his bike.

“I'm Sarah,” she says as she swings her bike around and hops on it like she was born to it. 

“Dean,” he replies, then falls silent. Fine time to show her what a brilliant conversationalist he is, he thinks.

“Fucking hell,” he seethes as pain flares up along his knee when he starts pedaling, but it quickly numbs into something slightly more tolerable, and he endeavors to keep his whining to himself, and to not annoy the pretty lady taking pity on him.

  


Dean hadn’t received a reply from Sam, so he’s definitely not expecting to see his gigantor brother pacing around outside his apartment building. 

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean calls out as soon as he’s within earshot. 

Sam’s face is a battleground between concern and exasperation, but that soon turns to an all-too obvious curiosity as soon as he spots Sarah riding up along next to Dean.

“Dean! What the hell happened?” Sam’s eyes dart between Dean and Sarah, and he can tell that his brother is trying to decide if she was involved or just a bystander, and how intimidating he should be. (Knowing Dean's track record with altercations with other cyclists, smart money’s on Sam thinking she had something to do with it.)

Before Dean responds, Sarah’s bringing her bike to an impressive stop a foot from Sam. She holds out her hand, and Sam takes it hesitantly.

“Hey there, I’m Sarah. I found your brother bleeding in the woods, and decided to escort him home before he found the spot where I hide all the bodies.”

Dean rolls his eyes as Sam barks out a burst of laughter. Fucking _figures_ the girl would make a serial killer joke to the secret serial killer fetishist. Writing her off as a lost cause, he hobbles up to his door.

  


Sarah sticks around and observes—with only a moderate level of creepiness—while Sam and Dean clean more gravel out of the scrapes, and a little while later, when Dean’s showered and dressed and recovered from his embarrassment, he discovers her and Sam chatting it up on his couch. He watches from the bedroom doorway; they haven’t noticed him yet, they’re so engrossed in each other. But he knows Sam, and he doesn’t think Sam thinks he’s ready for anything romantic yet. The way they interact bears that out. Sarah’s friendly and gregarious, and Sam’s actually being sociable, but they’re parked on opposite ends of the couch. Sam’s interested in her, that’s plain as day, but there’s a certain reticence in his posture and Dean knows that he’s not going to be putting the moves on her any time soon.

Well. At least they get along. If nothing else, Sam needs some more friends. It’s been, what, seven months since Jess died? And his brother took it hard (well, how the fuck else was he supposed to take it?). He purposefully lost contact with all of their mutual friends, and living out here, he didn’t really have anyone else to turn to. Enter Dean, fresh out of his own failed relationship and ready to get the hell out of Lawrence. 

Sam finally spots him hovering. “Dean! Sarah’s great. Good job on almost killing yourself.”

“Har, har, Samsquatch. What’s up?”

“Wanna do dinner tonight? Sarah knows a neat little bar and grill not far from here. She doesn’t live too far away, either, so I’m thinking I’ll take her home now, and we’ll head over there later? Sound good?” 

“Gotta work at ten, but as long as they have burgers, that sounds fucking fantastic.”

  


The Roadhouse looks to be more ‘bar’ than ‘grill’, which may explain why it’s not that busy for an early Saturday evening. He spies Sam’s huge head across the room, and it looks like Sarah’s already there, too. Sam’s freaking _animated_ , talking with his hands, laughing. Even ducking his head like a nervous teeneager. Huh. It’s a Christmas miracle. If Sam wasn’t still grieving, looks like he and Sarah’d be good for each other. If they become friends and keep in touch, and, well, _if_ she’s available and interested (it _looks_ like she is, but you can never really tell), maybe it’ll fall to Dean to give Sam some gentle nudges.

He waves away the waitress coming to greet him as he makes his way to the booth. He slides in next to Sam… and keeps sliding, until his brother’s squashed up against the wall. Sam jostles Dean away, and Sarah laughs at their antics.

“You know, I had no idea you guys were brothers until Sam and I were talking while you were showering.”

“Oh?”

“Totally thought you guys were, like, you know… together—” Sam chokes on his water, and Dean must have a Look on his face, because she smiles wide “—no, wait, wait—because we rode up to the apartment building and Sam was _so_ fucking worried, and he couldn’t decide whether to kill me or thank me for bringing you home!”

Dean chuckles, a little ruefully. “Well, we’ve had… a strange upbringing. Lot of the time, all we had was each other. So I guess we’re a little closer than most siblings.”

Her glowing smile fades a little, and she nods in sympathy. Sensing the need for a topic change, Sam butts in.

“I already ordered your burger. So, get this, Sarah works at that art museum, the regional history one downtown.”

“What, the one museum in the whole city you haven’t been to?”

“I’m getting around to it!” Sam says, and Sarah laughs. 

God, she’s so _bubbly_. Hands down, she’d be much better at keeping Sam’s spirits up than himself. Definitely a keeper, whether romantically or not.

“So, I know Sam works at a small firm downtown, but what do you do, Dean?”

Oh, his favorite getting-to-know-you question. “Uh, well, I bartend weekends, but also work at the University Hospital—”

“Ooh, a nurse? Anesthesiologist?”

“Nah, nothing like that. I’m a lab technician in the research department, where they do studies on sleep disorders, cancer, that kind of thing. It’s really not very exciting, but the pay’s alright,” he says.  

Sarah smiles and nods, but he can already see interest fading from her eyes, which is fine, really, it’s not him she should be interested in. She turns back to Sam, and they get going on another ghoulish conversation about some sicko who went on a murder spree, so Dean lets his attention wander around the bar. There’s only a smattering of people around, but—he checks his phone—it’s barely past six, so he figures it’ll get busy in an hour or so. 

Content to people-watch while the weirdos at his table discuss kill counts or something, his eyes follow the blonde waitress that tried to intercept him earlier. She’s young, but with a serious attitude problem that he finds amusing and endearing. And maybe the crusty old dudes at the bar are all regulars. In any case, it’s fun watching her shoot them down and trample their flirtations under her feet with her straightforward sass and stompy boots.

Besides the likely regulars, there’s a couple of guys sitting on the far end of the bar that show no inclination to flirt with her whatsoever, which is the thing that peaks _his_ interest. Maybe they’re together. The slightly taller guy has sandy hair and is probably older than Dean, judging by what little of the man’s face he can see. He’s handsome enough, Dean supposes, but for some reason it’s the other guy—the one facing away from him, where all he can see is the curve of the guy’s back—that has Dean’s attention. 

He’s not even sure why. 

Sure, it’s a nice back, and he has a head of thick, dark hair that’s either artfully mussed, or just messy. But he can’t see the guy’s face, and despite living here for months, he still doesn’t know a lot of people, so it’s very unlikely that he actually knows the man. Just then, the dark-haired man laughs, and gestures at his companion. The action pings with familiarity, but Dean still can’t place him. Probably just saw him in passing somewhere.

Having fully assessed all the other patrons of the establishment, Dean turns back to the conversation between Sam and Sarah and pretends he’d been paying attention the whole time. Given that neither of them even noticed his mental absence or his return, that’s a depressingly easy task. He’s _so_ glad that he’s so integral to the evening. He pushes his silverware around the table, and eventually—bored out of his mind—his eyes wander around the bar again. But when the waitress arrives with their food the conversation trails off and Dean digs into an undeniably fine burger.


	2. Back in the Saddle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally cut off the first couple paragraphs of this chapter when pasting, oops. Fixed now!

Dean had limped home after his shift at the bar that Saturday night, his knee throbbing and stinging. Understandably, Sam had canceled their ride for the next day, and their mid-week rides as well, and Dean spent the next week healing and sulking about it. Without the physical activity to distract him, he had far too much time to think about Sam’s situation, and his own situation, and all that time spent brooding has left him feeling kinda down. 

When the next Sunday dawns bright and clear, with not even the barest hint of a breeze, he texts Sam. Sam calls him back almost immediately.

“You sure? We’ve only stuck to small rides so far.”

“Dude, I know, it’s weird, but I’m itching for it. Been cooped up all week, and my knee doesn’t hurt any more.”

“Okay. I’ll be over soon.”

With surprising energy, Dean scarfs down breakfast and gets dressed. He’s added another pair of shorts and a couple of extra jerseys to his wardrobe over the past month, mostly because he doesn’t want to do laundry three times a week. He likes his plain yellow hi-vis jersey the best, so that’s what he pulls on. He’s got his tires filled up and his water bottles in their cages by the time Sam’s knocking on his door. 

“Heya, Sammy.”

Sam looks him over, eyebrows practically crawling off his face.  
“Wow, you weren’t kidding. Usually I have to cajole you into putting all your gear on.”

Dean shrugs. 

“Here.” Sam hands him two granola-slash-energy-slash-black magic bars. “Don’t want to lose all your vim and vigor in the middle of the ride. Put ‘em in the bag under your saddle. And you got both water bottles filled up? Good. There’s a park at around the turn around point where we can refill if we need to. You all sunscreened up, too?”

Dean nods in the affirmative, but experiences a little tremor of doubt. Why the hell would he go through both water bottles before they even turned around? He’d told Sam he was ready to go on a long _er_ ride, not the monster excursion that Sam seems to be preparing for.

But it’s too late now. Sam’s herding him out the door, and then the bikes are on Sam’s trunk rack, and then they’re pulling into the trailhead lot. Suddenly Dean’s not so sure he can do this. His stomach knots when he remembers tipping over--the feeling of being suspended in air for a fraction of a second, his feet trapped, and then… No, it’s fine. He can do this, because it's for Sam. It was just one little spill, and the bruise isn’t as bad as it was this time a week ago, not by a long shot. Chances of another thing like that happening are low, especially now that he’s starting to get the hang of this cycling thing.

And then Sam opens his big mouth. “Okay, we’re only going to aim for twenty-five miles today.”

“I’m sorry, _what?_ ” But Sam has already clipped in and is pedaling toward the trail. “Fuck you, you dick!”

 

The lack of wind is nice, but the sun beats down relentlessly in between the occasional oasis of shady trees. He’d be dripping sweat if it hadn’t all evaporated and turned into a crusty layer of salt on his skin. By the time Sam pulls over at a little park, Dean’s knees ache, his hands are numb, and his brain has devolved to repeating a litany of _pushpushpush_ with each crank of the pedals. 

It’s a tiny park with a shelter and a few picnic tables. Sam steers them over to the drinking fountain, thankfully on the shady side of the little building. Dean tries to hide how much his thighs shake when he gets off the bike, but Sam’s stretching and therefore not looking at him. Dean has to shake out his hands before function returns, and only then does he pour out his tepid water and refill his bottles with deliciously cold fountain water. 

He stumbles over to one of the picnic tables while Sam fiddles with his seatpost, and drops onto the bench with a groan. He pulls off his sunglasses and wipes at his face with his jersey, trying to avoid the sting of sunscreen-laden-sweat hitting his eyes, just in time to hear a deep voice address him.

“That looks painful,” the man says, and Dean’s eyes snap open. _That_ guy, again. He drops his jersey down in haste, hoping that his tummy bulges weren’t too obvious. Dean’s too tired and sweaty to spare the blood to flush, but his face is likely beet red already. For the first time, he sees the guy without sunglasses or a helmet obscuring his face, and it’s really too bad the dude’s a cranky dickhead, because (of course), he’s really fucking hot. His hair is all sticking up every which way, and he’s got this nice stubble, his face is nicely tanned and he has striking blue eyes, and these fucking lips that are just made—Dean blinks and drops his gaze to the concrete floor of the shelter. Not the time for this. And _definitely_ not the right guy. 

“Looks like your recklessness finally caught up with you,” the man continues, clearly referring to Dean’s yellowing bruise, and Dean’s head shoots back up. Yep, what a fucking douchecanoe.

“Look, man, fuck off, alright? Obviously I’m new at this. I’m just doing this as a favor in the first place, and it's not like I was trying to run you off the road, but like I said. Total beginner. You don’t gotta keep shoving it in my face.”

The man stares at him, eyes squinted down to near slits. He seems to come to a decision, as he purses his lips and nods. 

“You may find it helpful to keep your knees tucked in and to use a slightly lower gear. It’ll increase your efficiency.” 

What that cryptic parting shot, the man wanders back over to his bike. Dean shakes off the encounter and chalks it up to the guy just being a weirdo.

“What’d he want?” Sam asks as they’re getting back on the trail.

“Oh, you know, just to laugh at me for falling off my bike. Said something about keeping my knees in. I dunno what the fuck he’s talking about. That’d just squish my balls more.”

“Hmm. He has a point, you splay your legs out too much sometimes. You’ll get more out of it if your body is as streamlined as possible.” Sam hunches his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug when Dean glares at him. “Sorry, Dean, but it happens to be true. Speaking of efficiency, once we get a few more miles in, I’ll show you how to do saddle stretches to reduce some of the tension in your calves.”

“Oh my god, you’re such a nerd,” Dean says as he shoots ahead of Sam for all of five seconds.

 

“Never. Again.” Dean collapses face-down on his bed.

He can’t see him, but he’s pretty sure Sam is smiling. “You say that now, but I know in a few days you’ll be anxious to get back on your bike.”  
“I’m serious, Sammy. Take that dumb thing and toss it into the dumpster.” He groans as he shifts, trying to find a comfortable position without actually moving. “Now get out and leave me to my misery.”

Sam laughs, but does as requested, and soon Dean is alone in his quiet apartment.

It’s probably twenty or thirty minutes before Dean has enough energy to shuck his gear and shower. Seriously, though, never again. Whoever invented this sport should be dragged out into the street and shot. Everything fucking hurts. His sunscreen started to wear off about seven or eight miles from Sam’s car, so not only is he sore, and not only has his knee started hurting again, but he’s sunburned now, too. The water sluices over him, and it’s cool and soothing. He stays in the shower longer than he intends to because of it, and his mind starts wandering. The ride wasn’t all bad. It’s just the post-endorphins stage that always has him questioning why he does this to himself. They’d seen some deer just off the trail, which was cool, and an honest-to-god vulture perched on something dead in the open prairie part of the ride. That alone provided him with plenty of incentive to keep on going.

Then, of course, there was That Guy again. 

Dean hadn’t even run him off the trail today, and the guy still makes it his business to accost him. On their way back, though, he’d passed them yet again, but had restrained himself to a terse warning and managed not to swear at Dean this time. So… progress? If they keep meeting like this, maybe someday they’ll manage to be civil to each other. Not like anything’d ever come of it, though it’s nice to imagine something coming of it. God, why do the assholes always have to be hot? Maybe… maybe it’s _because_ he’s an asshole. He’s certainly had enough of those relationships. Lisa wasn’t like that, though. Or maybe that’s one of the reasons they failed as a couple. No, there were plenty of real reasons that failed. Besides, all the relationships with assholes failed, too. Fuck, this is depressing. He lets his mind wander back to the guy. Might as well focus on something that he can make into pleasant thoughts… 

A hand meanders downward, trailing lightly along his skin. He cups his rapidly hardening dick lightly in his soapy hand, but then changes his mind and grips himself tighter—he’s too impatient to be gentle or to draw this out. He pictures the guy on his knees, begging for forgiveness, no—begging for it; imagines the guy grabbing Dean’s ass in his (probably) strong hands and deep-throating him—fuck, that would feel fucking _amazing_ —god, it’s been so long since he’s wanted anything this bad. He braces himself against the wall with one hand, the other steadily pumping his cock. He swallows down his noises, unwilling to give the nameless jerk the satisfaction of making him moan, but a soft whine slips out anyway when he comes. He shudders with the intensity, and leans against the cool tiles as he catches his breath.

 

It’s Wednesday, and Sam can go fuck himself for making Dean _like_ this damn sport (aaaand now he’s calling it a sport. Fuck his life). Sam can also go fuck himself for canceling yet again due to some B.S. about ‘work’ and ‘possible thunderstorms.’ Dean pokes at his phone. It’s only a forty percent chance of storms with the _slim_ possibility of a turning into a severe storm. And right now, the sun is shining without a cloud in the sky. 

That settles it. He’s going on his own today, then. He knows the trail like the back of his hand, and he can fit his bike in Baby’s trunk once he moves all the crap he always forgets is in there, so this will _not_ be a repeat of that day on the unpaved trail, nope. No siree. 

His optimism is borne out by the fact that there are several other people using the trail. If it were really that dangerous, wouldn’t more people have stayed home? Besides, not like the storms are even remotely as dangerous as they are back in Kansas. Buncha Upper Midwest babies (which, somehow, Sam has become in very short order) don’t even know what a real storm is.

It’s not until he gets six miles into his ride that he realizes how unnaturally dark it’s gotten, and it’s not until a mile or so after that, when the wind picks up, that he starts to worry. He’s not even sure when it happened; he just looked up, and the sun was gone. And while raindrops spattering on his sweaty face feels fucking awesome, it’s tempered slightly by his growing concern. He doesn’t mind getting wet, but there’s no damn _grip_ on these tires and he’s starting to slide around on the pavement. And thunder means lightning. Happily, he’s coming up on one of the parks that spring up along the trail. One of the little shelters that Sam’s always pointing out to him comes into view and with a sigh of relief he heads straight for it. 

Rain pounds on the wooden roof. He pulls his helmet off, and cold water drips down his back. Not that it’s any colder than his rain-soaked jersey. Dean shivers. He tugs off his jersey and wrings it out, then spreads it over the table. The material is quick drying, so maybe it’ll be dry-ish by the time the rain lets up. If only he could do the same with his shorts—but Sam had made it very clear you don’t wear anything under bike shorts; Dean’s _pretty_ sure being naked in a public park is a big no-no.

Water mixed with sweat drips down his face. He runs his hands through his hair, trying to shake off as much as he can, and then plops his soaked butt down on the lone picnic bench. This isn’t the same shelter he and Sam stopped at the other day; it has one wall—papered with notices for dog-walking services and botanic garden tours and a large trail map with the YOU ARE HERE prominently displayed—and three open sides. There isn’t a water fountain, not that he needs one. He hadn’t gotten very far. And there’s more than enough water to go around, ha-ha-ha.

He watches rain sheet down. He’s so engrossed in staring at nothing he doesn’t notice when another cyclist slinks up to the shelter until he hears the telltale _click-click-click_ of bike shoe cleats on the concrete floor.

“Chance of thunderstorms, my ass,” says a gruff voice behind him. A voice he’s definitely starting to recognize.

Dean sighs. He drops his chin to his chest as he slumps forward, with the (probably futile) hope the guy doesn’t recognize him. The last thing he needs is to be trapped here with someone he hates but also kinda wants. The memory of that half-forgotten shower fantasy flits through his mind: That Guy on his knees before him, lips stretched around Dean’s cock. He really shouldn’t be able to be turned on right now, what with tight wet shorts wrapped around his junk and the chill seeping into his skin.

Yet he is _very_ turned on.

“You fell for that too? Fucking weatherman,” Dean says. He studiously keeps his back to the other man, but the sudden stillness behind him is filled with tension, and Dean realizes the man’s aware of just who he’s stuck with. Heaving a sigh, he shuffles around on the bench. The guy frowns, lips clamped together in what must be some pretty serious displeasure, his gaze focused somewhere out in the pouring rain. He’s taken his gloves off but left his helmet on, unbuckled. A trail of water slides down the side of his face, caressing his cheeks. Its progress slows when it hits his stubble, and hangs off the edge of his jaw. Dean can’t tear his eyes away from him, that drop of water trembling on the precipice of falling. He shivers again, but it’s not from the chill of wearing soaked gear. It’s not a chill at all. Sudden heat washes over him, and his clammy skin tingles with arousal.

Dean wants to shove him.

Shove him up against the wall and lick the rain from his neck. Kiss him senseless. Swallow him down, or maybe eat him out, or bend him over the picnic table and fuck him into oblivion. Dean blinks and chases the thought away. He shifts on the bench and hunches over, plucking at his shorts. All that does is rub the wet chamois against his increasingly obvious erection, so he very nonchalantly grinds the heel of his hand into his junk. This is so not the time, and so not the place, and so, _so_ not the person. _Go away go away go away_. The mental image of himself being bent over the picnic table flashes to the forefront of his dirty, inappropriate, twisted mind. His dick only gets harder.

He clears his throat. “We gotta stop meeting like this.” Shit. He sounds like he gargled with a mouthful of gravel. 

The man makes a strained noise; could be a huff of laughter, could be a groan of annoyance. Maybe both. Dean chances a look, darting his gaze to the guy, but the glance lands right at his crotch because that’s at eye-level. He tears his eyes away… but not before he notices that maybe the guy is a little turned on too. Maybe. Or maybe he’s just hung.

“We’re in agreement there,” the man grouses. “It seems we’re fated to endure each other’s company for the foreseeable future, however, so perhaps you could keep your inane thoughts to yourself.”

Dean’s ears buzz and everything gets kinda hazy. The drive to _do something_ thrums through his veins, and he’s surged to his feet and in the guy’s face in no time. He’s a little bit taller than the other man; he draws himself up to his full height and does his best glower. Dean leans in, so close he can feel the man’s breath puff against his face. 

“Go fuck yourself, you fucking prick.”

The other man’s surprise shifts into something else. Dean doesn’t know what, only that he feels the tension humming in the air between them. His eyes drop away, but they fall on that drop of water. It’s probably a different drop by now, he realizes, but he watches it roll down the man’s throat, sees the tension in the cords of his neck. Dean swallows, but he doesn’t back away.

The man whips his helmet off.  It clatters to the concrete floor. “ _You_ can go ‘fuck’ ‘yourself’. You’re the—you’re an insufferable—unmitigated ass!” He pushes at Dean’s chest, the action over too quickly, and Dean sways backward before righting himself. The man pushes at him again, but this time he’s prepared for it and braces himself. And this time, the man’s hands stay connected to Dean’s bare skin for several seconds. They’re warm hands, and large. Dean’s eyes flutter closed as a wave of tingling warmth shoots through him, and he shivers again. The hands drop away. He hopes the shiver was mistaken for a chill. Or anger. Anger’s fine, too.

His hopes are dashed when his eyes open. 

They’re so close Dean can’t help but stare into his eyes, those blue eyes sparking with anger and maybe something more, something that won’t let Dean stop thrumming with desire. Whatever that something is, it’s quickly replaced by a sly, knowing look. The man’s lips twist with amusement he doesn’t bother to hide. Heat floods Dean’s face and he backs away a step. The man follows, and Dean backs away again. The man fucking _laughs_ at him as they repeat the dance for a few turns until Dean’s backed up against the wall. Paper rustles against Dean’s back. He swallows and glares at the guy.

The man _hmmms_ appraisingly. “It’d be easier to hate you if you weren’t so ungodly attractive.”

“ _You’re_ ungodly… attractive… you asshole,” Dean says, and then the tension peaks, and suddenly someone’s moved and their teeth clash together in what could pass for a kiss if it wasn’t so angry and fueled by adrenaline. The man’s lips are chapped, and Dean can taste sweat and sunscreen on him, but he smells like summer, tangy and sweet and with a hint of ozone. He grinds up against Dean as he pushes him back against the wall; yep, he’s definitely turned on. As turned on as Dean is, if not more. Dean moans into the man’s mouth and feels him shiver in response. His hands fumble with the guy’s jersey, breaking away long enough to tug it off over his head. Dean’s about to drop it on the floor, but the guy swipes it from his hand, balls it up, and flings it toward the table where it lands in a heap next to Dean’s.

“Look at me,” the man says in a low, possessive growl. He grabs Dean’s jaw and holds him still as he kisses him again, but a less bruising kiss than before. His fingers are clamped tight on Dean’s face, and he realizes he’s got a similar death grip in the guys wet, silky hair. The man exhales shakily and releases Dean. He presses his thumb against Dean’s lip, then lets his hand fall, trailing along Dean’s chest, sparking goosebumps in his wake. Dean’s breathing sounds unreasonably loud to himself, harsh and panting. He watches the man’s hands slip inside the waist of his shorts, sees him hesitate and stares uncomprehendingly for too many moments.

“Just do it, you ass.” He grinds out the words with effort, hips thrusting at the air and cock straining against the wet lycra of his shorts. The man frowns, but yanks Dean’s shorts down. The air feels wonderful against his skin, and he sighs in relief; a sigh that soon hitches into a moan when a hot hand closes around him. He falls into the feeling for a few blissful moments before the need to touch back overtakes him and he grapples with the other man’s shorts. But soon enough he’s got his hand on that gorgeous, thick cock. Dean wants to taste him, but that seems like too much for what this is. He contents himself with touch. They lean together, breathing into each other’s necks as they race closer and closer to release. Another moan escapes him, a needy sound that’s too _soft_ for this, so he does it again, deeper, harsher, and nips along the man’s jaw. The man trembles, and groans, and bites Dean’s neck—in warning, in praise?—and Dean tumbles over the edge, his brain shorting out for several seconds as he comes. 

He’s still throbbing when his senses return, just in time to pick up on the man’s labored breathing as he fucks into Dean’s hand, his own hand curled around Dean’s slackened grip. Dean rectifies that right away with a tight squeeze and a roll of his thumb over the head of his cock. The man whines into Dean’s neck as he orgasms, his come landing on Dean’s stomach, mixing with his own. 

They stay there for several moments, maybe minutes, breathing harshly, coming down slowly. In the silence he realizes the rain has stopped. Dean shuts his eyes and slumps against the wall at his back.

The man is the first to move away.  His cleats clack against the floor as he walks away, and as he returns. Dean’s stomach muscles jump when he feels a gentle touch. The guy cleans Dean up, then himself. He tosses the tissue in the trashcan and puts himself back together. It takes Dean a moment, but he finally wiggles his shorts back up. He adjusts himself with care, still sensitive. The padding rubs against him, but he kinda likes it. It’s a reminder. By the time Dean’s got his (thankfully somewhat dry) jersey back on, the other guy is already fully dressed.

They stare at each other for a few moments. 

Dean’s not really sure of the etiquette of the situation. He needn’t worry, though, because the guy nods at him, a curt gesture, and then he swings himself onto his bike and takes off.

Dean waits a few moments, lets him get far enough ahead to avoid further awkwardness even though he knows he’d never catch up to him. He eases himself back on his bike and works his way back onto the trail. 

Well. 

This was an interesting day, if nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> So, uh. Clearly, this is not a slow burn. They've got a ways to go yet, though, and hopefully I don't fuck up the story along the way, because I have no idea what I'm doing or where this is going. Yay!


	3. Quick Release

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the story took a strange turn this chapter. I feel like I should mention I have no idea where it's going, and no idea how it'll get there. It's like, I dunno, I've stuffed you in the trunk of my car and I'm driving with my eyes closed and it's night and the headlights are off. Also raining. Or a blizzard, maybe. So this'll be fun, right? Right! 
> 
> Also, sadly, updates will most likely slow waaaaay the fuck down, because I really really need to get my ass in gear with my DCBB, having procrastinated quite enough. But never fear! I'll keep working on this!
> 
> Thanks again, Dimps, for helping to make this readable :)

If there’s one thing Dean’s good at it, it’s pretending that something never happened. He’s so fucking good at it, in fact, he sometimes even fools himself. It’s why he’s definitely not brooding over a thing that did not happen well over a week ago. Dean tosses the menu down, unread despite his looking at it for several minutes. He doesn’t even _need_ the stupid menu any more; the Roadhouse is Sarah’s favorite place, which by extension means it’s Sam’s favorite place. They’re here every weekend. It’s practically become Dean’s second home.

Sam clears his throat, and slides a pamphlet past the plate of onion rings over to Dean’s side of the table.

“What’s this?” 

“Well, you could look at it and find out,” Sam says, smirking. He pushes a pen across to rest next to the pamphlet.

Dean’s gaze lands on the pen, and he darts a narrow look up to Sam, but flips the pamphlet open. “You want me to sign up for a freakin’ bike race?”

“Mm-mm,” Sam says around a mouthful of fried batter that may or may not have an actual vegetable inside of it. He swallows and licks a finger clean, and points to a line of text. “Not a race. A ride.”

“What’s the difference?”

“You really need me to tell you how a race works? Something like this is just for fun and charity. See, you pick what distance you want to ride, and put your t-shirt size down…  You’re not filling it in.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, because the shortest distance is thirty fucking miles. Are you trying to kill me? You are, aren’t you? You know, you can just _tell_ me you want to get rid—”

“Dean, I’m not trying to kill you. You did twenty-five easy. Another few weeks and you’re good for the fifty.”

Dean laughs at the weird and inappropriate praise, but he feels like he’s choking on something. He clears his throat and tries again, this time with words. “Dude. No fucking way could I survive that. My balls would fall off.”

Sam murmurs ‘they already have’ from behind the safety of his beer.

So Dean’s _pretty_ sure he can be excused for wadding up his condensation-dampened napkin and chucking it across the table at his brother.

Sam’s expression shifts from his teasing look to his ‘but seriously, Dean’ look.

“But seriously, Dean. I really think this would be a lot of fun. There are rest stops. They have cookies. And there’s a corn roast after the ride. Plus, the registration fee goes to local animal shelters.”

“Ugh, save it, you hippie. You had me at corn roast.”

“That’s great! So… I have a detailed training regimen already planned out, you think you’ll be ready to start Sunday?”

Dean sighs heavily. “Fine,  but can I please just enjoy what I presume will be my last Friday night of freedom in peace?”

Sam chuckles, but watches closely while Dean folds up the pamphlet and slides it into his pocket. Probably because he’s an untrustful bastard. But Sam’s attention soon slides past him, his eyes fixated on a spot over Dean’s shoulder. Dean turns, and observes Sarah approaching them, waving merrily.

“Great, the goon squad is here. I’m gonna go get a refill.” Dean nods a greeting at Sarah as he stands.

The Roadhouse is hopping tonight, and he weaves through the crowd and snags what must be the only empty barstool left because it’s the one down at the end near the bathrooms. Tucked back there in poor light, it takes a while for Jo to notice him waving his empty beer bottle. She shoots him a dark glance. 

“What do you want?”

“Charming as ever, Joanna Beth. Charming as ever. Need another for myself, and some for the ghouls back at the table.” He nods toward the teeming bar. “Is it just me, or is it real crowded in here tonight?”

“It’s not just you,” Jo mutters. She slams the handle of a tap back into place. “Apparently, a water main blew a few blocks down. They had to close all the bars on that street, which means all the cockroaches scuttled over here. Scared away most of the regulars. First time that’s ever happened. Mom’s stuck in back with Benny at the grill, so that leaves me out here all by my lonesome.”

An idea forms in his mind. It’s probably not the best idea he’s ever had, but it’s also not terrible, and would help with a certain situation that he’s recently found himself in. 

“You need a hand?” he asks. “I’ve slung a few bottles before.”

The look Jo shoots him is speaking—probably debating whether or not he’s lost his mind—but she sighs and nods and Dean finds himself sliding off of his stool and around the corner of the bar. She has him stick to beer, which is a tad insulting, but whatever. The time still passes quickly enough that when Sam and Sarah stop up, he’s surprised to realize over an hour has passed.

Sam sets a plate down on the bar in front of Dean. “Here’s your dinner. We’d been wondering where you disappeared to.”

“Just helping out, Sammy.”

Sam’s brows jump up, and he glances over at Jo, then back to Dean. Dean follows the gesture and shakes his head. “It’s not like that, man.” The fries have long gone cold, and he picks through them. After all, the whole point is the burger, and that’s still fucking delicious.

Sam frowns as he watches Dean stuff his cheeks with food.

“Don’t you have to work at your actual bartending job tonight?”

Dean’s still chewing, but he slows down to an obviously exaggerated degree and uses the time to carefully construct his answer. Sam’s frowning at him, as if he has an idea of what Dean’s about to say. The last bite of his burger goes down awkwardly, like the lump in his throat is a real, physical thing causing obstructions. And he’d been having a good time, tonight, too. Relatively speaking.

“Well, I would be, but they cut my hours to only one night a week, and it didn’t seem worth it, so I quit.”

Sam’s so obviously disappointed, his jaw audibly clicks when he grinds his teeth. 

Dean shoves a few of the cold fries in his mouth and smiles around them, daring Sam to give in to his meddling nature and read him the riot act. At some point in the past few minutes Sarah has slipped off her barstool and disappeared into the crowd, so at least he’ll be spared that embarrassment when Sam can’t keep silent any longer.

Which happens right on cue.

“Don’t you think it’d be better to avoid hopping from job to job like that? I mean, Dean, this is a new beginning for you. A chance to start over fresh, not make the same mistakes—”

“Sam,” he says, and amazingly, his voice is even, calm. But the words are a warning, and Sam ignores it.

“Dean, when you came out here, it wasn’t just for me. It was for you, too. You’re my brother. I want you to be happy.”

“ _Sam._ I didn’t enjoy working there, so I was not going to be happy there. If I decide to take another part-time job, I can easily find a place that’s a better fit. This isn’t me falling into old habits. Now leave it alone.” He swipes a bar rag across the polished surface vigorously.  Sam’s jaw works as he stares off somewhere over Dean’s head, but eventually his gaze drops down to the shiny and scarred surface of the bar, and he nods. 

A part of Dean wants to protest, to claim that he has every right to be picky about where he works, but Sam is right, too. He could stand to be more consistent, more even-keeled. Less willing to pack up and leave the moment things get rough. Although… it’s funny how he’s always so willing to leave a job at the drop of a hat, confident that he’ll find another easily, yet he was so focused on making one relationship in his life succeed—and maybe a little bit terrified that he’d be alone forever if he left—that he stayed with Lisa well after they’d simply become friends who shared a bed.

Sam slaps his hand against the bar and stands.  

“Well. Sarah has an early day tomorrow, and if you’re going to be back here, I think I’ll take off. Don’t forget, training starts Sunday.” Sam’s face is now carefully relaxed. He’s making an effort to not be angry, and Dean can appreciate that, so he nods his thanks and lets Sam off the hook.

 

The rest of the evening is dull in comparison, but he’ll take anything over arguing with his brother, so he bears it with equanimity. It’s not until a little after eleven that things get interesting. He’s just scraped a wad of damp, crumpled up ones off the counter and into the tip jar with a discarded business card—bra money is gross, but the thought of Jo’s reaction when she pulls the tips out at the end of the night is too amusing to resist—when a familiar voice gets his attention. 

“You seem happy.” 

Dean's aware of just how quickly his smile drops when he looks up into the crusty glower of the guy. It wasn't intentional; the last thing he wants to do is act like he's affected in any way. He eases his smile back into place. “Well, why wouldn’t I be? What can I get ya?”

The man looks over his shoulder quickly, a darting glance that was too quick to be anything but a reflex. His frown deepens. “I’ll have two of whatever dark beer you have on tap.”

“Coming right up.” Maybe he should be gratified that the guy seems to be in a persistent bad mood regardless of his whereabouts—meaning it’s not just Dean that has that effect on him. On the other hand, he can’t help wondering what the guy would look like with a smile. He shoves the thought away. Clearly, he’s here with someone else, and Dean really, _really_ shouldn’t be fixating on him like this. He slides the glasses across the bar, and the man pays with cash. He leaves two crisp, clean ones behind as a tip and is about to walk away—has, in fact, already half-turned away from the bar—when Dean blurts out a stupid-ass question before he can tell himself to shut the fuck up.

“Hey—what’s your name?”

Clearly startled, the man turns back to face him, beer sloshing over the rim of one of the glasses. The brew slides down the side of the glass and over the man’s fingers. Dean tears his gaze away, meets the man’s eyes as he scrutinizes Dean.

His frown is finally gone, and in its place is confusion, maybe astonishment. It was just a simple question, though for some reason the man seems to want to place some importance to it. He’s strange, Dean realizes, but it’s not a bad kind of strange.

“My name is Castiel.”

“Well, um. I’m Dean. You, uh, you have a good evening.”

The man— _Castiel_ , he thinks. _His name is Castiel_ —blinks at him, then replies. “And you as well… Dean.” He says the name carefully, like he’s tasting it, then turns and moves into the crowd, which quickly swallows him up.

Midnight comes and goes, and the crowd begins to thin out. Dean’s cleaning the bar—again, and properly this time—when he gradually becomes aware of a hovering presence at his side. He turns to discover Jo’s mom, Ellen, regarding him warily.

“Um… hi,” he says, then snaps his mouth shut. Oh, he clearly has his A game going on tonight.

“You’re Dean? Jo here tells me you helped out tonight.” Her voice is flat, almost unfriendly, like she doesn’t know what his angle is, but she’s sure he’s got one.

He looks around the bar, but there isn’t a reinforcement in sight. “Uh, yeah. She seemed kinda busy, so I thought…” He doesn’t know what he thought, so he trails off.

“You got your servers license?”

“Yeah, sure. Used to work down at—”

“Come back tomorrow, seven P.M. sharp.”

“Uh. Yeah, alright—”

She turns and whisks away into the back before he even finishes speaking. 

“I see you’ve met my mom,” Jo says, directly into his ear. Dean jumps a little bit, and glares at her.

“That’s a pleasure I would’ve happily postponed. Forever.”

“You’re afraid of my mother?”

Raised voices drift out from the kitchen, one clearly belonging to Ellen, and also very clearly berating Benny for not cleaning off a cooktop well enough.

“Uh. Yeah, I think so.”  

Jo pats his arm consolingly.

 

Dean’s so wiped out that he spends the next day lounging in his underwear, flipping through TV channels in the dark while rain sheets down outside. At one point he musters up enough energy to look over the training regimen that Sam typed up and printed for him, but it’s all gibberish in his current state of mind, so he drops it on the coffee table and turns his attention back to his Hoarders marathon. He feels bad about how the show makes him feel better about himself, but not enough to turn it off. 

Around five-thirty he manages to drag his lazy ass off the couch and get ready for his new job, which is pretty much exactly the same as the old job, only in a less pretentious locale and with better coworkers. He dresses down a bit, pulling on a well-worn t-shirt and jeans and some work boots left over from a short-lived gig in construction. A holdover from Lisa.

He rolls up to the Roadhouse a bit early, and sits in the Impala listening to rain drum against the roof and the engine tick as it cools. What is he even doing here? Or anywhere. His life the way it is… he’s adrift. He doesn’t even care which way the current takes him, and the fact that he can’t make himself care is fucking terrifying. He should care, right? He should have goals and aspirations and he should want _something_. But he doesn’t. Apparently, all he gives a shit about is making it through one day at a time. Fucking pointless, is what it is.

He sighs.

He thumbs on his phone, ostensibly to check the time, but sees a text from Sam and vaguely recalls hearing the notification. The message is brief, just a reminder about their bike ride tomorrow, weather pending, but a smile sneaks into being. The past few days have been like this one, and he longs to be outside in the sun, working toward a concrete goal, making measurable progress. More than that, he wants to sweat. To hurt. He needs to push himself, to pedal out all the bad juju he’s got flowing through his veins right now.

All he has to do is get through ‘til tomorrow.

 

Tonight? Tonight _sucks_. Ellen is brusque and Jo is frazzled. Benny pokes his head outside of the kitchen once, and barely exchanges two words with Dean, but it’s okay. It’s fine. It’s just a little weird being on this side of the counter in a place he doesn’t know _that_ well yet, with people he barely knows at all but is pretending to feel comfortable around. He briefly wishes that Sam were here, but a guy in his mid-thirties shouldn’t be depending on his baby brother to provide morale, now, should he?

He’s so caught up in pretending to be functional that he misses the fact someone’s talking about him until the conversation has ended. He’d heard a word here and there, and eventually his sluggish mind put enough together to realize someone had called him a pretty boy _and_ a hick. Those are two phrases that he’s heard used regrettably often in reference to his charming self. He looks up from under his lashes, keeping his head down, scanning the bar for the speaker. A man a few seats down catches his attention. He’s a little bit older, with sandy hair and a deep-cut v-neck shirt worn under a blazer type thing. With a start, he realizes it’s a man that he’s seen before. Dean can’t quite place him until he notices that the person seated next to the guy has a familiar mop of dark hair, and his heart leaps up into his throat. He’s seen them together before, he’s sure of it now. This guy is probably the person Castiel was with last night. 

He can’t see Castiel’s face, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to go unnoticed, to put his head down and get back to work, and he wants for this night to pass so it can be tomorrow. Sadly for him, the other guy happens to look up while Dean’s still engaged in his little surveillance. The man sees him looking and laughs before covering his mouth and turning back to his companion; the conversation is too difficult to hear clearly, but he doesn’t really need to hear any more. He finishes pouring out a drink for a tipsy frat boy and tells Jo he needs a few minutes. 

The men’s restroom is quiet and still, and only has the barest hint of eau de piss. Dean runs the water until it’s cold, soaks a paper towel, and buries his face in it. He doesn’t move when the door creaks open behind him, or when the next sink over is turned on. He does, however, lower the towel when the newcomer speaks to him.

“Good evening, Dean.”

Oh, fan-fucking-tastic. So now we’re pretending that he _didn’t_ catch them laughing about him. He meets Castiel’s gaze in the mirror, and the man’s eyes widen. The water in the other sink continues to run, its noise providing a fitting backdrop to the anger rushing through Dean’s veins. Dean’s eyes drop to the man’s mouth for a fraction of a second. Fine. Maybe it’s not all anger, but it fucking _should_ be. 

“Follow me in here to laugh at me some more?” Dean tosses his wet paper towel toward the wastebasket, where it catches the rim and hangs over the side tauntingly. He doesn’t look back at Castiel. He doesn’t want to see what he’s sure is written on the guy’s face. Instead he props himself up against the walls and stares at his boots.

Before the other man can answer, the restroom door creaks open. The intruder takes one look at Dean’s face and backs away, squeaking out an apology as he does. As soon as the door shuts, Dean slips the lock into place. If they’re going to have it out, might as well opt for relative privacy, right? Right. 

And as if sensing a fight, his pulse picks up and he starts to get that antsy feeling, that tingle that propels him to action, the one that’s responsible for maybe eighty-four percent of his bad decisions. Maybe eighty-five. He shakes his hands out and rolls his neck and advances toward Castiel, who still hasn’t said—huh. Dean looks at him, really looks at him, for the first time in a few minutes. Castiel isn’t angry or amping up for a fight, he looks confused, and maybe a little hurt, eyes still wide and mouth slightly ajar. 

“I heard you,” Dean prompts. “Pretty boy? Hick? Ringing any bells?”

That finally gets a response. Castiel frowns, his adorable pouty lips pursed in a familiar glower. “Why would you eavesdrop on a private conversation?”

“I wasn’t fucking eavesdropping, I was literally standing three feet away from you. _Working_. Because I work here. Remember?”

Castiel blinks. He’s still glowering at Dean, though, and the effect is ridiculous. And when the hell did they get so close? Cas is practically breathing in his face. 

“You piss me off,” Dean says, and then he’s somehow moved and he’s got Castiel pinned against the opposite wall. Dean watches, wide-eyed, as the other man licks his lips. “Fuck it,” Dean says, and swoops in to capture Castiel in a kiss.

Castiel’s lips are surprisingly soft when he’s not trying to bruise Dean’s mouth. He makes one aborted protest, or maybe he’s just as off-balance as Dean is, then opens eagerly for him. It’s an odd kiss. Neither of them touching the other, except for their mouths, which seem to be fused together as their tongues explore during the heated exchange. It’s not far from Dean’s mind that he could just drop to his knees and suck him off. He wants to, the urge strong enough that his knee buckles. 

And then Castiel shoves him aside. Dean stumbles back.

“Stop! Stop. I don’t want— Not like that, not again.” Castiel rubs a hand over his face, wiping his mouth clean. He meets Dean’s eyes with determination, his mouth set into a hard, straight line. A line that Dean inexplicably wants to kiss away—and then what Cas said finally clicks.

“Not like _what_ , exactly?”

“I’m not—” Castiel starts, but cuts off with a shake of the head. He makes for the door and slides open the lock with only one small fumble. He escapes.

And Dean stares after him, dumbfounded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally thought they were gonna do it in the bathroom, by the way. Cas is being problematic.


End file.
